You’ve seen the stills: close ups, famous faces, brightly coloured backgrounds. So far, so striking. And it’s called RAGE. Judi Dench is in it. Expectations are high. Prepare to lower them, limbo style, and enter the bizarre backstage world created by Sally Potter and her medley of caricatures masquerading as… gosh, I don’t know. Themselves, but pretending not to be themselves? Tongue in cheek hollowed out clichés? Brittle souls caught adrift in a merciless wave pool? Possibly all, but probably neither. I don’t think we’re meant to know for sure.

The premise is as follows: a high school kid films a collection of interviews during a four day stint within the bosom of a fashion house as they prepare for a show. He then posts his plunder on a website for all to enjoy. We never see, or indeed hear Michelangelo; even his questions are silent. Nor do we glimpse anything regarding the location or events. Dramatic things occur intermittently off screen. We are treated to hearing them happen, as they happen, or listening to the cast tell the camera, often in hushed tones, about something vaguely juicy. Take, for example, a young model called Debbie. We never see her but we soon learn that she cries a lot. She doesn’t eat. Looking in the mirror makes her sad. Debbie doesn’t last long; characters such as Debbie are usually more interesting in death. Have I said too much?

Although in terms of plot the drama supposedly happens out of sight, the implication is that the truly compelling moments unravel right before us whilst we wait backstage with the ever patient Michelangelo and his phone. The story that the film sets itself loosely within is somewhat flimsy and, one suspects, not to be taken seriously – which implies that our interest should lie with the characters themselves. They have a lot to work against since they are manifest (either by design or by default) as if thrown out of a stale packet of readymade stereotypes, thrown together and baked well past overdone.

Cue wide-eyed foreign pizza delivery boy, thrilled at his break into ‘acting’ but appalled at the lack of soul which subsequently swallows him whole. Ditto the ‘invisible’ seamstress, who is from a land less far away, but is instilled with enough distance (and religious trappings) to look upon the actions of those around her and, quite literally, weep. We also meet a artiste/designer who waxes lyrical about how his creations transform even the lives of those who can’t afford his line, a seventies throwback detective, sinisterly amoral intern and his older counterpart, a PR pawn called Otto. Ms. Dench gets the greater portion of choice lines as the sharp tongued critic; the kind who likes to weave words together in clever, cutting ways and listen to herself deliver her icy lines. Needless to say, Michelangelo is a perfect audience: she talks, he listens. He also films. Most of the characters resent this after they find out their ramblings are online, but all protests are feeble and short lived. The lure of our Michelangelo and his phone are just too great.

The voice for the model-shaped side of affairs comes in the guise of fourteen-year-old Lettuce Leaf, played by Lily Cole and also very wide-eyed whether she wants to be or not. Her defining characteristic (besides her extraordinary face) is that, being so young and comparatively unaffected, she talks to Michelangelo as a peer rather than a naïve schoolboy. Steve Buscemi also brings a certain bug-eyed brilliance to proceedings, and crops up every now and then as a been-there-shot-that war photographer who berates our young filmmaker for lurking behind the scenes rather than following the action. Nearly everyone condescends to Michelangelo; his apparent guilelessness being his gift. This perceived ignorance renders him a seemingly harmless outlet for the cast’s collective frustration.

It’s the ones with the eyes who draw you in the most. Not that we’re ever led to believe we’ve been granted access to some soul; indeed, it’s difficult to forget that these are all performances. The abstract, almost empty set up is one that could yield some really interesting results – each actor is all but alone with themselves, lacking props and context. They have their costume, their character, and a captive audience. The space is theirs to inhabit as they see fit, which is sadly where any weakness will shine through. Those who are unable to fill their space are left vulnerable and exposed, but not necessarily in an interesting way. And then even when they have their emotional moments, there’s an insincere aftertaste. For example, upon hearing an impressive barrage of gunshots and screaming mid-rant, Dench pauses to shield her tears and ‘gather’ before continuing to educate Michelangelo about the ills of the industry. The implication is that the longer each character sits before the camera, the more their guard will falter, eventually offering choice glimpses of the persona behind the persona.

And this, I suspect, is the crux of the film, as the story and setting are purely incidental. This is by no means a biting satire about the fashion world and does not present itself as one. The point of interest lies not in who the characters are and what they talk about, but what they reveal as they try to balance their projected identity against the compulsion to confess. You will know when the more revelatory moments occur, because the actor will lean in towards the camera and lower their voice. Occasionally they might be short cut by a roaming PR machine, leaving us to wonder what degree of insight we have missed out on.

The sense of intimacy does play well in this very contained context. Potter spent two days with each actor, filming them herself with a decidedly un-phone-like camera. The overall aesthetic is one of minimalism: in the director describes her approach as one, ‘concentrating on text and performance, a return to the basic elements of storytelling by exploring the landscape of the human face’*, which I think is a fair account of what we get on screen during the stronger (but rarer) moments. Potter ensured everyone stuck to the script, which somehow sounds scripted but in a way that lends itself well to the characters in question, many of whom are the types who would practise their spin with care before presenting themselves before an audience of any number. They don’t always talk, and it is precisely these silent moments whilst the actors fumble, preen and position themselves within the frame that prove to be the most intriguing.

Even then, we are never quite sure that a pair of downcast eyes or shielded face betray any real emotion; during these brief moments it’s hard not to feel that the film would achieve some real potency if it were able to explore these instances of spontaneous public shock and sorrow in more depth. We watch many of the characters in the aftermath and during the dramatic; they have to deal simultaneously with their own feelings (or in some cases lack of) whilst projecting the ‘correct’ response for the sake of the audience. Do they forget about the camera during these ‘raw’ moments or do they remain savvy performers? The fun lies in trying to find that line.

Sadly, the more reflective work is diluted by time. Events take approximately 30 minutes too long to unfold, and the cast, colourful as they are, struggle to hold the viewer’s devoted attention for the closing third of the film. Our curiosity about where things are going and what clever flourish will wash proceedings with meaning dwindles into mild impatience. That key moment never comes, not really, and the lingering sentiment is one of disappointment. Michelangelo‘s videos are designed to be seen as four diary-style segments on his website, and I suspect the film will fare much better within this format. One must assume that the director knows this too, as RAGE made its debut simultaneously onscreen, on DVD, online and as a mobile download. Gimmicky? Perhaps. But it may well be the film’s saving grace.

Within the film there is talk of inserting Truth (the capitalised kind) into that which is devoid of meaning. Whilst Potter’s experiment in form is not as vapid or as pointless as the world in which it nestles, it is sadly not particularly informative or consistently entertaining either. It begins to unravel as soon as things begin to happen offstage. This leaves two options: either drop the drama completely – or, if some manner of event is required for the actors to play off – fashion a more suitable incident to give the characters a chance to transcend their basic monologue. Length should never be equated with depth, and so cutting the running time might also provide a remedy. As it stands, the viewer is left feeling unsatisfied and perhaps even a little bewildered; the point of interest, it would seem, is in trying to decipher what Potter had in mind. Remove the plot, change the setting, and there are the bones of something much more rewarding here. Less time, less talk, and more of those face-based landscapes please.

* Sally Potter, as quoted from an interview with Sophie Mayer, whose book, The Cinema of Sally Potter, is due for publication in 2009. To read about the various gems that can be found within RAGE, click onto Mayer’s review, which currently resides here: http://www.littlewhitelies.co.uk/blog/berlin-film-festival-rage-review/